Good Investment
by Angel's Fallen Knight
Summary: Boy!Quinn. Rachel's theatre is facing foreclosure and needs money to keep her dream alive. How will Quinton Fabray, CEO of one of the biggest publishers in New York City, help?


"We're facing closure."

Rachel's eyes clamp shut to fight back the burn that aches her. She knew this was going to happen; there had been little signs here and there, they hadn't been doing very well at all with ticket sales, the crowds were getting smaller and pay checks had been cut to a fifth.

It was just a matter of time until she got the news, and she had prepared herself for it.

But it didn't take away the blow that impacted her square in the gut.

This theatre was her home, her saving grace in the thriving metropolis that was New York City. Sure, she wasn't exactly on Broadway yet, but off off Broadway was better than waiting tables at the grease filled diner two blocks from her tiny one bedroom apartment. She barely had two cents to rub together as it was, and the rent was rising by the month; it wasn't the best place to live and she knows that crack in the bathroom ceiling is going to cave in one day soon, but it's home.

Now what will she do without the saving grace of her pay check? The season was only just beginning and no auditions were being held, especially for Broadway. She'd have to go back to that damn diner and go home smelling like overcooked bacon and stale coffee all over again.

Hell no. It wouldn't happen, not if Rachel Berry had anything to do with it.

"When?"

Jesse St. James crosses his arms over his chest as he asks, clearly unimpressed. He's a strong willed man, and one that Rachel didn't always see eye to eye with; but he was a friend nonetheless.

The director, Thomas, scratches that back of his head, strong fingers melting into messy blonde hair. He was only in his early thirties, but the news that he had been trying to avoid for so many months had aged him considerably. "If we don't find the money in three weeks, we'll have no other choice but to shut the theatre."

"Fuck." Jesse curses aloud and turns away, stomping toward the back of the stage to stew in his own anger. He curses to himself softly; cursing the world, cursing the lack of ticket sales and the growing cost of keeping their small theatre up and running. He knew the universe had it in for him, had it in for Rachel and Thomas, who were better than this tiny little theatre. They deserved to be on Broadway; they had the talent, the drive, but without this theatre, how would they get anywhere?

Rachel's eyes slide openly slowly, and she glances over her shoulder to look at her co-star, watching as he kicks at the stage floor, cursing softly, then turns her attention back to the fidgeting man before her, "How much?"

"Forty-five."

"Thousand?!"

She sighs softly, half annoyed and half distraught, when Jesse cries out behind her.

"No, fish sticks, what do you think?" She shoots back, looking over her shoulder at him. "Calm down, you're not solving anything by freaking out."

"I have the right to freak out, Rachel. This is my livelihood."

"It's mine too, Jesse. I don't want to see this theatre shut either, but cursing the world won't get money into this place."

His jaw finally relaxes when he sighs deeply. He heads back toward them, stopping back beside Rachel, crossing his arms over his chest, protecting himself from the blow. "So what do you suggest?"

"We need an investor." Rachel beams as she says it, almost as if the news of foreclosure hadn't just been announced. "All we need to do is find a lover of the arts and someone with a big heart; they'll happily donate to a good cause."

"Not many of those sort of people exist in New York, Rachel. Everyone is out for themselves."

"That's very closed minded, Jesse." She reprimands softly, "There are a lot of people in this city that are only willing to help. All we need to do is reach out and look."

"And where do you suggest we look?" Thomas asks, confusion etched clearly on his face, "It's not every day we come across people with money to burn."

Rachel taps her foot softly against the stage, listening to the dull wooden thud that meets her taps. It soothes her, reminds her of the days she walked on stage and owned it. The wood was scuffed and was in much need of replacement, but it held history, and it was something she appreciated.

"I have an idea."

* * *

His company wasn't small by any means; he earned millions a year and the profits were only climbing each and every year. He reigned supreme over other companies in his field; book publishing. He had tried and failed as a writer; publishers often turning him away and never offering any solid advice for him to better himself. After years of trying and failing, he grew to detest common publishers and dedicated himself to creating a publishers that offered help and advice to struggling writers.

His business flourished over the years, but he had slowly begun to forget about his roots. Instead of wondering what would be written on the next page, he wondered how he could boost profits, grow his customer base; it had slowly begun to change him. He had always promised himself that he would stay true to his love of writing, and that is what pushed him on, but now he had turned into something he was slowly beginning to despise.

Instead of being the cool headed, free loving teen he used to be as a teen, he had now turned into a trigger-happy and easily irritated man; even the slightest slip up had him fuming.

He turned to writing when his mood was less than great, and his trusty leather-bound book had been his saviour many a time. But it hadn't seen the light of day for a while, often too busy to write, and know he never knows if it'll ever be brought out again.

Too busy to write, too angry to work; his schedule was slowly beginning to destroy him.

He often loved looking out of his office window, high above New York City on the thirty-ninth floor, he loved the view. He just never thought about jumping out of the damn window before.

"Sir, you have a meeting in ten minutes with your accountant, you have lunch with the head of marketing at one thirty, the new contracts for Mr. Peterson and Ms. Jackson are arriving by courier at four and those will have to be signed immediately."

He looks over his shoulder at his intern and flicks up an eyebrow, "Anything else?"

His intern, a jittery twenty something fumbles with the papers in his hands. He avoids eye contact; everyone knows not to look Quinton Fabray in the eye, unless they want to shit their pants.

"Uhm, well…" Twitchy fingers send the papers spiralling to the floor and he curses under his breath. He drops to his knees and tries not to cringe when he hears the annoyed huff of his boss. "Well, you have, uhm…" He stumbles back to his feet, papers crushed to his chest, "The benefit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art tonight at eight."

Quinn groans, softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Would this day ever end? "And I need to attend?"

"Sir, you've already confirmed. Several of our writers will be also attending, using the event for publicity."

"Great, so paparazzi will be crawling up my ass all night."

The intern, Ian, blanches.

He sighs, "Fine. Have my car ready for quarter to and call Philip, tell him I'll need a tux."

Ian nods, "Of course." He flees quickly, shutting the door softly behind him.

And Quinn sighs, banging his forehead against the window pane; how he wishes he could just fly away.

* * *

"You're insane. You're actually insane."

"Will you be quiet?"

Two brunettes peak from behind the crack in the door and glance around with shifty looking eyes, "You're stood on my foot."

"Then don't stand so close to me!"

"At one point, you liked me being that close to you."

"Must you do this now?"

"Shit, someone's coming!"

The female of the group is ripped back into the room and the door slammed cleanly shut as an oblivious waiter passes with an empty tray swinging from his hand. He thinks he hears hushed whispers coming from the coat closet, but all it does is make him smirk; obviously, someone is getting it on. He'll leave them be.

"Jesse, ew, don't you have a tic-tac?"

"I knew I shouldn't have eaten that pizza before we got here."

"Was it just garlic? Because that smell is just-."

"Oh God, relax, I have a mint somewhere."

"…I think they're gone."

"You sure?"

"Yeah…I can't hear anything, just music from the ball room. You ready?"

"Ready as ever, darling."

"Okay lets go, and Jesse?"

"Yes?"

"Don't call me darling."

* * *

He wants to pull out his hair with how boring this damn benefit is. He's been sat in the same seat for almost two hours and they haven't even served the meal; his father always taught him that it was rude to leave before the meal was even served, but leaving before dessert was just fine. He'll complain of a headache after the main course and just slink out the back door. No one will be none the wiser when he doesn't return.

"So, Mr Fabray, how go the plans for expansion to the West Coast?"

He plasters a smile on his face, something else his father taught him, and regards the aging gentleman that sits opposite him, a glace of champagne in his hand.

"Pretty well. Obviously I've had some issues with where to locate, but I think I've found the right place."

"Is it in LA? That's usually where the big publishers go."

"It is, but I'm not like other publishers, Mr O'Neill. I'll be settling another head office in San Francisco."

Mr O'Neill regards Quinn with obvious shock in his eyes, "Are you sure that's the right plan of action? Your profit margin would probably be much better in LA."

"I have no doubt in my mind that my West Coast office will do just fine." He swipes at his hair, pushing it out from his eyes. He feels the wax on his fingers and he cringes. He feels stuffy in his tux and he just wants to go home. "If you'll excuse me." He stands and leaves before the urge to punch a sixty year old man that reminded him way too much of his father got the better of him.

* * *

"This material is disgusting."

"Sometimes you sound like Kurt."

"Hummel? Oh please. I have a better style than him. He dresses like he's blind."

"Jesse!"

"What? It's true - have you seen how tight his pants are? I can only shudder to think the pressure his junk goes through every day."

Rachel sighs and adjusts her skirt. She looks the part; a flowing black knee length skirt and a fitted dress shirt tucked in. "We need to act like we work here, we can't let anyone know that we're crashing this place."

"Rachel Berry, who knew you were such a daredevil?"

"I've always been a daredevil. I just choose when and when not to show it."

"Like stuffing the ballot box senior year?" Jesse chortles, adjusting his tie.

"Oh shut up, come on. We have to play it cool and find someone who will be willing to donate to our cause."

"We're not a charity, Rach."

"We are now."

* * *

He went to the bathroom and it took him twenty minutes just to do his business. Nowhere is safe at a benefit, especially when you're known to make millions and donate to charities all over the world. Everyone wants to know you, everyone wants to know how your business is going, everyone wants to know your personal business.

Sometimes, people are just as bad as the paparazzi.

He stares at himself in the mirror and fights off a cringe at how old he looks. He's only twenty-seven and he looks as if he's well into his thirties. His eyes are dull, so very dull; they no longer hold the shine of bright hazel that drew in the girls at college. His hair, always perfectly coiffured; short back and sides with a floppy top that was always pushed back with wax, somehow had lost its shine too. He felt weak, tired, and he just wanted to sleep for the rest of the week.

Earning millions was a dream, but it wasn't his dream.

The buzz of his cell in his pocket rouses him from his empty stare and he flicks his finger across the screen without even looking at the screen.

"Fabray."

"Sir, the entrée is about to be served."

His intern was nothing but punctual and obviously two feet away outside the door, peering into the ball room to keep track while his boss was in the bathroom.

"Fine." He disconnects and stuffs the phone back into his pocket, wishing he could just turn it off.

* * *

"What the hell is this stuff?" Jesse turns his nose up at the fishy looking sliver on the plate he's holding and looks to Rachel who is already serving another table. She flashes a smile, tells the patrons to enjoy their meal and walks away, winking at Jesse as she passes.

He can't help but smile; throw Rachel Berry into any role and she'll nail it without issue.

With a smile, he serves his table, but can't help but wipe his hands on his pants as he walks away.

* * *

"This is for the last table, be careful with the plates, they're the most exclusive of philanthropists."

Rachel sighs softly and nods, relieved. Now she can finally scope out the competition. "Of course, I'll be most careful." The head waiter regards her silently, but she just smiles and walks away before he can say anything. He doesn't remember having someone like her on his payroll.

* * *

"Ah, lovely." David O'Neill comments loudly, clapping his hands together as a plate is settled almost too carefully before him. "The food gets better every year, I can almost guarantee it."

Quinn rolls his eyes and adjusts the napkin on his lap; just two meals and he can leave. He can write a check, donate and leave. He isn't even hungry. His stomach doesn't even growl when the smoked salmon arrives in front of him. He quietly thanks the waitress and grabs his fork. He's about to dig in when he hears a quiet, "You're welcome." from beside him.

He looks up and almost drops his fork.

Silky brown hair pulled up into a ponytail reveal the stunning features of the woman before him. She looks young, maybe early twenties and her smile, while small, just lit her entire face. Brown eyes almost seemed to bore into him and for once in his life, he was rendered speechless.

Tanned skin seems to almost blush as he regards her and it almost makes him smile. The girl clears her throat softly, "Enjoy your meal." And she turns on the balls of her feet and speeds away.

It takes him a few seconds to realize she's actually walked away, and by the time he's finally dug into his meal, everyone else at the table has finished.

* * *

"I found him."

"Found who?"

"The guy who will donate."

"What?" Jesse beams, wiping at the sweat on his forehead. They were hidden in the back of the kitchen, and while it was hot as a bitch, they both knew that no one would bother them or listen in. "He said yes?!"

"Well…I…didn't ask-," Jesse's face completely falls, "But! I know he will, I just know it."

"And how are you so sure about this?"

Rachel smirks, "I just know."

* * *

He's signing the cheque and his intern is stood beside him, ready to take it away. He signs his signature and holds it over his shoulder, clenching his fist when his intern takes it from his grasp. He stares blindly into space, then sighs and pushes himself up from his seat.

"Going so early? The party hasn't even started, Quinton."

Tanya Armstrong smirks at him from her seat, she was cocky in every respect; she had earned her first million at the age of only eighteen and ever since her profit margin had only grown. She liked to show off about it, and she did; dripping with jewels and expensive clothes and haircuts that cost thousands of dollars. She was everything Quinn hated.

"I have a headache and a long day tomorrow. I should be heading out."

She sips at her champagne, "Party pooper."

He doesn't even hold back from sneering at her.

* * *

She catches him as he's putting on his coat to leave. She panics internally; she thought she would have more time! She glances around, then to the desserts in her hand and groans. She can't serve them, he'll leave, she's sure of it. He seems to be in a hurry too, walking as he puts on his coat, barely saying a word to others as he passes by them.

She dumps the plates and waves to Jesse as he serves his table, but he doesn't see her. She breaks out into a run, just to catch him, and the cold winter air hits her full force as she barges through the doors. Her man is making his way down the steps, toward his waiting car, another man following close behind, phone stuck to his ear.

"Excuse me!"

She cringes when people turn to face her and blushes when the rather cute blonde turns to regard her. He looks pissed off, but when he sees her, his face seems to melt toward calm, but still annoyed.

She shuffles from foot to foot, then gasps when his eyebrow flicks up. Almost instinctively, of their own accord, her feet shuffle toward him, barely avoiding tripping up on the steps.

"Can I help you, Miss…?"

"Rachel, Rachel Berry."

He nods softly, "A pleasure. How may I help you?"

She's aware of the eyes that are on her, and for once, she feels stifled by it. She glances at the people that surround them, softly talking amongst themselves, watching them carefully with hawk like eyes.

"My car." Her head snaps back to the man before her, "We'll speak in my car. Come."

She wonders silently if she should tell Jesse where she's going, but she's already in the car before she's made up her mind.

* * *

They drive in silence and Rachel can't help but watch the intern from the back seat. He's speaking in hushed tones on his phone, and glancing back at his boss, somehow silently conversing with each other. The man beside her nods or shakes his head each time the intern turns his head. It's oddly fascinating to watch.

"Quinton Fabray."

"Excuse me?" She turns to look at him, "Oh! Your name." When did she suddenly turn dumb?

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "What can I help you with, Miss. Berry?

She steels herself; now or never. She had scoped out the rest of the patrons at the dinner, and she had spoken to a few, but most of them just turned her away before she could introduce herself. One woman in particular, sat at Quinton's table, had outright laughed at her when she asked for a forty-five thousand donation.

Rachel could have screamed.

Now she could only hope that Quinton would be the man she needed to keep her theatre up in lights.

"I'm not really a waitress."

Quinn's eyes don't dull and she's honestly shocked when he openly tells her, "I know you're not. So who are you?"

"I'm an actress. My theatre is facing closure…we're not really pulling in the funds we need to keep afloat and…" She sighs, "I know it seems pretty meaningless, but, it's my home and it would kill me to see it close."

"What theatre? Do I know of it?"

"Not really," She cringes, "It's off _off_ Broadway. It's only a small place, but it has a lot going for it, all it needs is fixing up and-,"

"Miss Berry, relax. You don't need to sell your little theatre to me."

"…Oh." She fists her hands in her lap, "So you're saying no?"

Quinton tilts his head ever so slightly and regards her; in some weird way, this small girl reminds him of himself. She has that passion, that determination to go for what she wants, just as he did when he was a writer. But he just gave up. Unlike Rachel Berry.

"How much is needed?"

Her head snaps up and she fumbles to remember the damn amount, "Uhm, forty-five."

"Thousand?"

"Yes."

He hums softly, "And you said it needed fixing up?"

"A new stage would be nice," She adds with a coy smile, which does make him smile in return. "Really nice, actually. It's a pain to go barefoot onto that stage without hurting yourself."

"Can't have that, can we?"

She sees the smile in his eyes and she chuckles.

"Theatre isn't my strong suit, but I'll try my best." He fiddles inside his coat and pulls out a cheque. "You have your money, Miss Berry. Congratulations."

* * *

"You got the money? All of it?"

Thomas stares at her, wide eyed, "Great, I've gone insane. I know I have. How the hell did you get forty-five thousand together in two days?!"

"We went to the NY Met and Rachel hooked us up with a crazy rich dude. He's already signed the cheque."

Jesse hands over the small slip of paper and Thomas holds it in his hands as if it'll shatter if he clutches it too hard.

"Fuck, this is the full amount and more!"

"He said he'd update the theatre for us, make it modern, pull in more seats."

"Wow…"

In total silence they stand together on their stage, their pride and joy, and burst into cheers.

* * *

"Are you fucking delusional?"

"I can afford it."

"Quinn, theatre isn't even in your field. It's a theatre that I only knew about because I googled it. You're pissing your money away."

"Maybe."

"Your accountant won't be happy."

"He can fuck himself. I pay him enough."

Santiago Lopez smirks at his friend, "This must be some girl…"

And Quinn stares out into the city, shoves his hands in his pockets and sighs, "She is."

* * *

"This whole place needs to be gutted."

And it does. He's been to plenty of Broadway shows and the theatre's he often frequented looked a thousand times better than this dingy, almost drab looking, excuse for a theatre. Half of the seats didn't match with the décor, the floor was sticky with something that was sure to ruin his shoes, and the stage - Rachel wasn't joking. He almost got a splinter running his hand across it.

The lighting barely worked, there wasn't enough man power to keep the theatre and all its electronics running, the sound system was bordering on ancient and the curtain was patched up rather poorly to cover up rips in the seems.

"Gutted?" Thomas Green's eyes widen almost dramatically, and Quinn can't help but feel that this man is fitted to be a director. He almost out-acts his cast.

"Yes. This place is pre-dated. It needs to look modern, like the Gershwin."

"We're not even a quarter of the size."

"I'm aware, but that doesn't mean that it can't be as beautiful as the Gershwin. We'll change everything; fit new seats, a new stage, change those god awful lights and then we'll deal with the play."

"Play? We already have something chosen."

"Why was I not made aware?"

Thomas bites softly at his bottom lip; suddenly terrified about the way that his investor is looking at him. Quinn almost looks pissed that he wasn't informed and thoroughly put out that they didn't even think to ask him.

"I…thought you were only updating us…? Keeping us going?"

Quinn crosses his arms over his chest, "I also need to see a return on my investment. You'll be back in the same place in a few years if you don't put on shows that people want to see." He steps forward and drops his voice, so eerily quiet, "And I won't be investing again if that happens. This is your only chance, Mr Green."

It pains him to say it, and he feels his control over his theatre slip away when he says, "Okay."

* * *

"He's a prick."

Rachel rolls her eyes at Jesse as she pulls on her heels, "At least give him a chance."

"I have and he's already demanded we change the play. I'd already begun to learn my lines and now he wants me to learn completely different ones? He's a prick."

"He has the mind of a businessman, Jesse. It's not easy for him either. He's thinking of this place as an investment, not a theatre. Just give him a chance."

"Tom doesn't like him either."

She sighs softly, "Well I don't care. I'd deal with the devil himself if it meant this place remained open."

Quinton Fabray truly is a man, Rachel decides, when she hears what comes out of his mouth as soon as she gets on stage with Jesse. In a short black dress and matching heels, she does look rather sexy, if she does say so herself, she just wasn't expecting to hear what Quinton had said.

"Sex sells."

"I'll bang you on stage." Jesse smirks, looking down at her.

"How do you mean?" She asks the blonde after she's slapped Jesse round the back of the head.

"It's pretty straight forward. People want something raw, passionate; they want to feel everything an actor feels, feel something they can relate to. What better way than sex?"

"Not for virgins…"

She slaps him around the head again. "Nudity is a no."

Quinton slumps back in his seat and sighs; the banging of the workmen behind him is suddenly making him feel weary, and the constant talk back from both Thomas and Rachel is beginning to tire him out. He's used to being the boss; what he says goes, but now he's out of his comfort zone, around people that will openly tell him if his decision is wrong.

He doesn't like it in the slightest. He hates to admit it, but sometimes he is his father.

"We need something that will bring in customers. Obviously the shows you were putting on before were shit," His eyes slide to Jesse, "Or the acting was sub par."

"What the fuck are you-,"

Rachel settles her hand on Jesse stomach and softly shakes her head, "Mr Fabray, we appreciate your help, we truly do, but treating us like we're mindless workers for your company will do nothing to sweeten us up. You've invested your money and now you need us to get it back. We can come to some sort of arrangement, right?"

He sits, silently stunned; who knew this fucking girl was so damn smart? He had invested the money, he'd ordered the man power to gut the theatre, there was no way he'd get his money back now. It wouldn't make a difference to his earnings, but it would effect his pride and his pride wouldn't take a beating like that.

"I'm not shutting up about this, Miss Berry. We need something hard hitting or you won't get the money in."

"It's not always about money, Quinton."

He groans, "Perhaps not, but I invested and I have some say in this, whether you like it or not." And before she can reply, he stands to his feet and storms off in his four thousand dollar grey suit.

"See?" Jesse hisses, "Prick."

And suddenly, Rachel finds it hard to disagree.

* * *

It had been two months, and the stage had been ripped out and replaced. It was smooth, sturdy, strong, and Rachel couldn't help but bounce up and down with glee as she stood upon it. She almost felt regal, like she was finally on a real stage.

The theatre was a mess; seats were ripped out and in the process of being replaced, the curtain had come down and there were no lights. They were having to use flashlights when rehearsals ran particularly late, and Quinton's moods had taken such a dive over the months that Rachel and Jesse did everything in their power to avoid him.

But he was always there, working from the theatre, with his intern calling him constantly with updates, interrupting a scene with the annoying shrill of his ringtone.

Jesse had left, and so had Thomas, who was popping aspirin like nobodies business to combat the headaches that Quinton left him with. She was alone on stage, not knowing if the investor was still in the theatre or not. The workmen had left hours ago, and all she was left with was the quiet silence of an empty theatre.

She's tempted to put on music, but Quinton had put his foot down about using the new sound system without his express permission. She eyes the console at the back of the theatre and hums softly to herself; just one little song wouldn't hurt, right?

She isn't even off the stage before she hears a familiar husky voice behind her, "I thought everyone had left."

Rachel turns so fast she almost falls of the stage, but Quinn grabs her before she has the chance to fall. "Careful." She smiles softly and thanks him as she pulls away, standing well away from the edge.

"I thought you'd left. I was just checking out the new stage."

Quinn nods, "I was just checking what work needed to be done backstage."

"Oh."

Silence, and it's unbelievably uncomfortable. She needs to shatter it, say something, make him say something.

"I wanted to check the sound system too."

Quinn's eyebrow flicks up, "Why?"

"Well, there's a few intricate dances in this show. I'd like to get in some extra time when everyone is gone."

"But Jesse is your partner. Why isn't he here practicing with you?"

"He's exhausted." No, he isn't, he just wanted to leave before he shoved a prop down Quinton Fabray's throat. "I can just pretend he's there. I know his steps as well as mine."

"It's always better to dance with a partner. Imagination is key, but not always."

Rachel sighs, "Then what do you suggest?" She's certain he'll say 'come back tomorrow and rehearse then' but she's shocked when he begins to shrug off his jacket and unbutton the top button of his shirt.

"Dance with me. I'm a little rusty, I haven't done this since High School, but I think I'll be able to sway a little in the background."

"You can dance?"

He shrugs, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, "A little." He's fucking excellent, but he doesn't tell her that. "Which dance did you want to rehearse?"

She beams, excited, "Any, really."

"I received one of the songs from the sound director. It's completely revamped." He's already jumping off the stage to reach the console.

"To make it more sexual?"

She can't see his face in the darkness, but she can tell that he's smirking; he has a tendency of doing that to rile her up, although he doesn't need to try very hard.

He's back on stage and running a hand through his hair, "I hope you know your steps, Miss Berry."

"Ditto, Mr Fabray."

He stands behind her, and she stares forward, breathing heavily, calming herself and waiting for the music to start. She knows this song, she danced and sang to it as a little girl, and now, here she was, about to grind on one of the richest men in New York to that same song.

Her father's would die.

He's so close. She can smell his cologne. She can hear him breathe. She can feel his chest to her back, the soft race of his heart pounding. She feels the music seep into her, race through her veins and her hips softly begin to sway.

Quinton hadn't been kidding when he said the song had been revamped. Oops I Did it Again had been a major milestone for Thomas to give to Quinton, but he had eventually given in, when the investor had promised it wouldn't cheapen the show.

And he was right. It's modern and if the choreography that she had spent so many days learning had been any indication, incredibly sexy. She felt sexy. She felt wanted. She felt as if the man dancing with her, wanted her. It was empowering, even when she was dancing with Jesse, but knowing that she would have Quinton Fabray, millionaire, philanthropist and CEO eating out of the palm of her hand, sent her mind reeling.

She almost feels his hands twitching at his sides, almost as if he's itching to touch, and she fights back the urge to look over her shoulder at him, to see his eyes, see the expression on his face.

Instead, she opens her mouth and just sings as the music swells around them both and fills the theatre.

"_I think I did it again. I made you believe, we're more than just friends. Oh baby, it might seem like a crush, but it doesn't mean, that I'm serious. 'Cos to lose all my senses, that is just so typically me. Oh baby, baby…"_

She works in complete tandem with him, and when his hand comes to her throat, she almost freezes, but then it's gone and down between her legs and she almost fumbles the words. But she calms herself instantly and grabs his hands, soft and so very smooth, and pulls them away. She's almost shocked by how good he his; so much for swaying in the background. He makes all the right turns, knows when exactly to grab her and pull her close, knows his footwork almost meticulously, and he doesn't even look like he's trying.

She hears his almost thunderous steps behind her and it sends a shiver right up her spine. It almost sends her to another place; the beat of the music and the thumping of his dress shoes against the stage, it's all she hears, all she feels, and then his hands are on her biceps, spinning and pulling her against him.

Chest to chest, but only for a second, he lifts her. All humour gone, she stares into his eyes as he works his feet to spin, still holding her up, before settling her back down and spinning her out from him arms.

His eyes are locked with hers, unwilling to look away, not even to tell where he's going; he almost knows of his own accord. His hair, styled perfectly with wax, is wet against his sweaty forehead. He looks so unabashed and she fights off the clench she feels between her legs.

She shouldn't be feeling this way about him; he's an investor, an important man - why would he ever be interested in a girl like her? He's everything she isn't; rich and successful. They don't fit together and they probably never will.

She belts out the final note, just in time for him to spin her back into his arms, and right up against his chest.

At the end, with her hands pushed to his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist, they both pant for breath. They stare at one another, and she watches as a bead of sweat rolls down his temple and wets the tiny hairs of his sideburns.

"You didn't get a choreographer to create this, did you?"

He smirks, "Why do you say that?"

She doesn't reply, instead, she looks down to her hands. The adrenaline still coursing through her veins sets her on her high, and the feeling in her fingertips are almost heightened. She feels the soft material of his shirt, almost silky against her fingers.

"You have an amazing voice." Her head snaps up, "One in a million, if I'm being honest." His beaming white smile makes her question why everyone hates him so much.

"Do you sing?"

His eyes seem to darken, "No. I don't."

"Why not?"

He seems taken aback by the questioning, "I can't carry a tune in a bucket."

She narrows her eyes, trying to figure out if he's lying or not, but she's pulled away from her thoughts when she finally realizes she's still being held in his arms, hip to hip and almost intimately close.

"You're an enigma, Mr Fabray." She comments as she gradually pulls away from him.

"All Fabray's are."

She doesn't question it.

* * *

Jesse can sense something; he isn't as thick as he leads people to believe. He sees things, he senses things, and what he senses is that Quinton Fabray is an asshole that had eyes for his best friend. He saw the looks he gave her during rehearsals, the long almost lingering stares at he spoke to the foreman about the building schedule.

It was okay, Rachel Berry was a beautiful woman, he knew that himself.

But what worried him was that Rachel smiled shyly whenever she saw Quinton looking at her, and looked at him when he was busy on his laptop or phone. Rachel Berry was falling hard and he had to stop it before the millionaire broke her heart.

They're right in the middle of a scene. Honestly, she's used to cell phones going off during a play or someone being much too loud with their coughs as she says her lines. But this is just ridiculous.

It's rehearsals, Jesse is backstage, ready to come on and drop the bombshell that leads into the second act; they have to nail it, the theatre's opening is only two weeks away. He's about to walk on and then Quinton's cell goes off.

He sits there, arms draped across the armrests of the brand new seats that had been fitted weeks before. He lets the phone ring off, and Rachel doesn't think anything of it, but then it starts up again, and he makes no move to answer it.

It's a terrible shrill; shattering the aura she had created during her scene. She knows that the show must go on, she's used to this sort of stuff, it shouldn't bother her. But the look on his face looks as if he's testing her. He's staring right at her, waiting for her to say something.

But she just clenches her jaw and waits until the ringing stops to continue.

She's two words in when the shrill begins again.

"Can you answer your phone?"

He narrows his eyes slightly and she narrows hers right now; almost at a Mexican stand off, they stare at one another and she crosses her arms over her chest, silently telling him that she won't just give up. His lip twitches, almost making a smirk, as he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, takes one look at the screen and throws it onto the seat beside him.

The shrill is louder and she grits her teeth in annoyance.

"Why are you doing this?"

He raises an eyebrow, slowly, "Is it annoying you?"

She almost feels like scoffing, "_Yes._ At least have the decency to silence it."

"Decency?" He taps his fingertips on the armrest, "You need to get used to this. You can't have utter silence all the time, Miss Berry. Will you just stop acting if someone can't find their phone within a minute to silence it? Will you storm off stage…" He frowns, "Like a diva?"

Jesse is watching in the wings, lips melted into a frown, eyes ablaze.

"They were right."

Quinn tilts his head, "Right about what?"

She sighs, thoroughly let down by a man she had put all her faith into.

"You _are_ a prick."

* * *

They're sat together in a nearby coffee shop; rehearsals had been cut short after Quinton had rose to his feet, picked up his phone and stormed from the theatre. Jesse and Rachel had been silent ever since - only speaking to place their orders.

It was late, just after half eleven at night and they were both completely exhausted; both from rehearsals and Quinton Fabray's mood swings. Jesse could barely lift his coffee and Rachel felt if she tipped forward to drink, she'd fall asleep nose first in her cup.

"I don't get him."

She barely looks at him when he says it, she just runs her fingertips across the coffee stained table, drifting away with her own thoughts. She hadn't been lying when she called Quinn an enigma, far from it; he was. At one moment he could be a happy go lucky man, and then something could just suddenly flip inside his mind and he would turn into a man that Rachel wished she never knew.

"Neither do I," She replies, completely exhausted, dragging the steaming mug of coffee to her lips.

"I knew I was right," She fights not to roll her eyes at him; she doesn't need to hear the 'I told you so' talk from Jesse St. James. "He just likes to get a reaction from people. He completely alienates people he doesn't like, just for the fun of it and then when it comes to someone like you, he sweetens you up and then just breaks you."

"People like me?" She asks, dragging her eyes up to look at him, "He was trying to see how far he could push me, how far I could take the ringing of his phone before I snapped and he was right; people won't stay completely silent during a show, no matter how much I don't like it."

"Why are you trying to stick up for him?" He leans back in his seat and groans, "Rach, the guy is a grade A asshole. He was pushing you for fun, not because he wanted to teach you something."

"I just think there's something more to it," She licks the coffee that marks her upper lip, "There's a reason he's doing it. There's a reason he was goading me."

"I'll never win with you." He drains his coffee and grabs his jacket, "I don't know what you see in that guy, but Rachel, if you keep going on like this he's just going to destroy you."

He doesn't even say goodbye.

* * *

"You did what…?"

Quinton pops the cap on his beer and downs almost half of it in one go. Santiago and his boyfriend Brett are sat in the main room, watching the game. His strong willed friend, Santiago, looks away from the TV as Quinn finishes his story.

"I pushed her too far. She hates me."

"Why the hell did you push her in the first place, ass wipe?"

"Yeah, Quinn, I thought you liked her?" Brett chirps in, mouth half full with popcorn, which he immediately swills down with beer.

Quinn sighs, swirling the beer around in his bottle. He just wants to get completely smashed, dive into his bed and worry about the hangover tomorrow. He wants to sit down, watch the game and get drunk with his two best friends. Why the fuck did Santiago have to ask how things had gone with Rachel?

"Yeah, man. You're rusty as all hell; when was the last time you got some pussy?"

"S, shut up."

Santiago shrugs his strong shoulders, "Just sayin'. If you think the way to the euphoria between a woman's legs is pissing her off and making her call you a prick, you're strongly mistaken."

Brett chuckles and stuffs another fistful of popcorn in his mouth, "You're never gonna get laid, Q."

"I'm not doing it to get laid," He replies with a short sneer, "I - fuck, I don't know what I want."

Quinn drops back into a chair and nurses his beer. Brett watches him for a second before turning his attention back to the TV; he knows when to shut up. But Santiago continues to watch him, eyes narrowed, "You don't want her to turn into you."

When Quinn's eye twitches - a sign that his friend hit the nail on the head - he continues, "You don't want her to just give up on her dream. You want to push her, you want to make her more determined." He watches as the blonde begins to scratch at the label of his beer, "You don't want her to be a sell out."

"Shut the fuck up." Quinn sneers, "I'm not a sell out. I didn't sit back and drown in my depression over not being good enough to get published - I got out there and made something of myself."

"Yeah, you did, but you're not fucking happy."

The color drains from Quinn's cheeks and he looks back to the TV, defeated.

"You're not happy in the slightest, and sure, I can deal with your bitching day in and day out, but if you break that girls heart because you're not happy with the way _your _life turned out, you really _are_ your father."

Brett is out of his seat to hold Quinn back, but he isn't fast enough to stop the first punch and the bleeding nose that Santiago storms out the door with.

* * *

He's on edge the next day, and he knows it has something to do with the half bottle of tequila that was sat by his bed when he woke up. He barely remembers the night before, and all he does remember is that his knuckles hurt just a bit too much and he boxers were pushed down to the bottom of the bed.

He rubs at his temples as he waits for rehearsals to begin, trying to remember what he did the night before, but nothing comes to mind. He's just about to slam his open fist against his temple to try jog his memory, but Jesse and Rachel walk on stage, ready to rehearse.

Clearing his throat, he looks at them both, "Take it from the dance." He waves his hand behind him to the sound technician he and Thomas had hired. She was fresh out of college and ready to start a new job, so as soon as Quinn raised his hand, she had already begun to push play.

Rachel barely takes her eyes off of him and Quinn doesn't miss it; her eyes are narrowed, perhaps in scorn, but he feels as if she's contemplating something. He's about to ask her when her eyes on him begin to make him feel uncomfortable, but she's already turned into Jesse's arms.

He feels like growling when the music swell and she begins to sing; Jesse looks so comfortable behind her, like he's meant to be there - he wonders if he knows that Rachel had been dancing with him only days before.

Jesse doesn't even look his way, and Rachel only glances at him from time to time during the routine. It infuriates him how indecisive he is; he felt uncomfortable under Rachel's gaze, but now he's upset she isn't looking at him.

The throb of his hangover is getting to him; that's all that is. He rubs at his temples and narrows his eyes when Jesse wraps his arms around Rachel's waist and pulls her backside against his crotch. He almost sneers when Jesse smirks.

Jesse drags his lips across Rachel's neck. Her mouth gapes slightly, her eyes shut and Quinn can't help but become entranced. She looks like she's about to…

And Quinn see red. His hand shoots up and the music stops. Rachel, mid line, chokes on her words and stares at the fuming blonde before her.

"Yes?"

Quinn, cheeks flushed and a growing throb in his pants stands from his seat, "I don't like it. It's terrible."

Jesse narrows his eyes, pulling away from his co-star, "You liked it before. What changed? Trying to push us again?"

The blonde's mouth gapes, then he slams it shut, lips forming a thin line, "Just fix it." And he storms off.

"God, what an ass."

Jesse turns away from the retreating back of Quinton Fabray and looks to Rachel. She's stood there, fingertips brushing along her bottom lip.

"Rach?"

But she doesn't reply, she just drops her hand and walks away.

* * *

He doesn't know what makes him check his phone. It had been on his pillow when he awoke that morning and he can't quite remember how it had gotten there. He's sat in his office, barricading himself off from everyone and anything that could possibly make the pounding of his headache worse.

His phone sits dejected on his desk and he stares at it, willing it to give him the answers he seeks.

Fucking tequila.

He drags his finger across the screen and slowly inputs his password to unlock it. His home screen pops up and for one second he wonders what he's actually looking for. He looks at his texts, but there's nothing; only his intern reminding him of appointments or his accountant chewing him out for the rising costs of the theatre update.

He goes through his recent calls.

Thirty two from Ian.

Two from his accountant.

One from his mother.

Six from his office.

And one _to_ Rachel Berry.

He swallows in reflex, and his finger, suddenly twitchy, presses down on her name. His eyes widen as he looks at the duration of the call.

An hour and sixteen minutes.

Fucking tequila.

* * *

"Rachel," Quinton watches her stop as she's about to walk off stage. It's two days later, and opening day is only half a week away. They had been pushing to be the best they could possibly be before opening day rolled around, and the fourteen hours days that had been putting in was slowly beginning to exhaust them. "Stay behind please."

She glances at him, then turns to Jesse, who silently pleads with her to come with him. But she shakes her head, "Go on. I won't be long."

Jesse sighs angrily, "Don't blame me if you get hurt, Rachel. You're playing with fire."

"…I already did."

Jesse's eyes widen, "What?"

But Rachel walks away and Jesse has no choice but to turn and walk away. He may not know what she means exactly, but he isn't stupid; he knows what Rachel feels, what she thinks, what she can choose to do when her heart overpowers her head.

He's just not looking forward to the fall out.

* * *

"How can I help you, Quinton?" She asks as she walks down from the stage. She takes each step, almost as if she's walking to her death. She'd been waiting three days for Quinn to mention something about their 'little' phone call, and now the time had come, at a time when she thought he had just forgotten about it.

She knew he was drunk. She knew he probably meant nothing he said.

"We need to talk." He replies as she stops in front of him, hands clasped in front of her. He doesn't like the fact that she's towering over him; he feels almost powerless. So he stands and brushes the sweat away from the palm of his hands on his dress pants.

"Okay." She brushes a stray hair behind her ear and nods, "I'd ask what about, but I have a fairly good idea."

He tries to say something, but all he can do is cough to clear his throat. He's spoken in front of hundreds of people, talked his way into deals that made him millions, but he can't seem to talk to this one girl.

"It's about the call, right?"

He can only nod.

"I know you were drunk, so I'm not surprised you can't remember." She nips at her lower lip, fingers beginning to fidget, "Or do you?"

He just shakes his head.

Rachel blows out a breath, "Okay…uhm." He watches her throat bob and suddenly he wants to kiss it, "Well, we…_you know_."

"We what…?"

"Oh for goodness sake. You're not stupid, Quinton."

His eye twitches, "I know. I want you to say it."

And she flushes, cheek aflame with a burning embarassment. He's toying with her, he knows exactly what she's talking about and he wants her to say it. He wants to hear those words fall from her lips. She unclasps her hands and take one measured step forward, just to be that much closer to him. He's so tall compared to her, at almost six foot, and she takes in his strong jaw before locking eyes with him.

"I touched myself while you told me what you wanted to do to me."

She watches him - watches his Adam's apple bob slightly, jaw tensing, eyes blazing. For a second, she thinks he's annoyed, but he remains quiet, deadly silent, just watching her. It's minutes before he actually says anything and by the time he does, she's already feeling completely naked beneath his gaze.

"Did I do it too?"

She nods slowly, "Yes, you did."

And Quinn just snaps.

"Fuck! I'm such an idiot." He clasps his hands behind his head and turns his back to Rachel, shying away from her, completely annoyed with himself.

"You regret it…?" He hears meekly behind him and he feels his heart shatter.

"It shouldn't have happened." He drops his hands and fists his hands by his side, "I was drunk."

She remains silent behind him, obviously shocked, and Quinn is tempted to turn around just to see the look on her face, but he can't bring himself to do it. He's completely mortified; that is why his boxers were kicked to the bottom of his bed, why there was dry patch on his stomach. He had put his defences down and Rachel had done the same for him.

"So that's it? You're going to completely ignore what we did?"

He can't ignore it. "Yes."

"And it'll never happen again?"

"No."

He wonders if she'll ask another question, but she hears the click of her high heels as she walks away. His head snaps to her, he can't see her face, but he knows that when her hand touches her face, she's wiping away tears.

"Rachel..."

"Leave me alone, Quinton."

* * *

It's opening day and he's locked away in his office, buried beneath a mountain of paperwork that he had neglected to finish over the coming week. Rachel had completely sidetracked him and the mood between the two was tolerant at best. She doesn't look him in the eye anymore, she only speaks to him if it's to do with the play and she certainly doesn't stay after rehearsals have finished.

He knows she isn't focusing as much as she can, and he knows that if he sits there and watches her, he'll make her feel uncomfortable and she won't be to her best. So he stays away, sits in his office and mourns over the loss of a girl that is too good for him.

* * *

"_Quinton?"_

"_Heeeeeey, how're you?"_

"_I'm okay. It's late... Why are you calling?"_

"_Thought how I'd see how you were doin'."_

"_Oh. Well, I'm fine. Are you…?"_

"_So good. Hand hurts, but it's all good."_

"_Why does your hand hurt?"_

_He snorts softly, "Punched my best friend in the face."_

"_Quinton! Why?"_

"_Call me Quinn. Quinton sounds too formal."_

"_Okay…Quinn, why did you punch your friend in the face?"_

"_Ah, he told me not to be a prick to you."_

"_He did? Why is that?"_

_He chuckles softly, head thumping back against the pillow of his bed, "He told me I'd never get between your legs if I treated you that way."_

_He turns onto his side and takes a long swig from the bottle of tequila, cringing at the bite that it leaves behind as it burns its way down his throat. "Rachel?"_

"_I'm here."_

"_Oh, good. I thought you left."_

"_No, no…I was just figuring out what to say back to that."_

"_Say back to what?"_

"_What you just said."_

"_What did I say?" He takes another long swig and listens to the soft huff over the line. He can't help but smile; he can almost imagine her stomping her foot in annoyance._

"_That you wanted to…get between my legs."_

"_Oh, I do."_

"…_Why is that?" Her voice drops, low and husky, dripping with sensuality._

"_You're fuckin' beautiful, Rachel."_

_He can almost hear her blush, "Thank you, Quinn. You're quite handsome yourself."_

_He grins at the compliment and takes another long swig; Dutch courage._

"_The things I would do to you."_

_There's a quiet gasp and he shuts his eyes, letting that soft sound just engulf him, "What would you do?"_

"_Completely destroy you. I'd just lay you down, pin your hands down and take you. I'd go so slow just tease you, to make you beg, and only when you have tears in your eyes, dying to come, I'll fuck you hard and fast. Do you like it hard…?"_

_The shuddering breathing of Rachel's voice lets him know what effect he's having on her. He listens, silent and takes another swig of that bottle; it's time he loosened up, what better way than with Rachel Berry?_

"_I love it hard."_

"_You'd like it if I slammed into you, then? You'd feel me for days, Rachel. Every time you sat down, you'd remember how deep I was inside you and remember how loud you screamed my name when you came around me."_

"_Quinn…"_

"…_Yes?" Somehow he knows that he'll start slurring his words if he drinks anymore, so he discards the bottle by the side of the bed and collapses back against the bed. Her breathing, shuddering, drives him insane. He can only imagine how she would shudder beneath him, on top of him, on her hands and knees, begging, keening, crying out for more._

"_I need you."_

_It's all he needs to hear and he feels his cock twitch against his thigh at the plea. He grabs himself through his boxers, feels himself, knows he's getting hard, and he only gets harder when she hears Rachel shuffle in her very own bed across the line._

"_Will you fuck yourself for me?"_

"_You're so crass…" She gasps quietly. He knows she's touching herself, rubbing that quivering clit that needs him so badly, "Oh, Quinn."_

"_Fuck yourself for me, Rachel. Let me hear you. Shatter for me."_

* * *

Opening night, he stares out of his window, not really seeing the view. His phone remains clutched in his hand as he battles with himself to send a 'break a leg' text to the cast. He knows he should be there, but he can't look her in the face, he can't bring himself to.

He made her _cry_.

Resting his forehead on the cool glass, he shuts his eyes, fighting back the urge to throw his phone across the room. It's only a text, he doesn't need to see her; perhaps she would appreciate it?

"Sir?"

He sighs quietly, "Yes?"

"I thought you would be at the opening. I just came to collect your paperwork."

He shakes his head softly, "Go ahead."

There's a quiet shuffle behind him, the collection of papers that he had finished hours ago and wished he could bury himself in again. "Sir?"

"Yes Ian?"

"You should go. I think Miss Berry would appreciate it."

Quinn remains silent, but pushes himself away from the glass, palms flat against it. "And why do you say that?"

He watches his reflection from the window, he watches his intern shrug, then fiddle with the papers, contemplating if he should continue, "She's called every day for the past three days asking how you are."

The blonde turns so fast he bangs his elbow on the window, "What?"

"I'm sorry sir. She told me not to tell you."

"She asked about me?"

"Yes sir."

"Did she sound okay? Happy? Sad?"

"She seemed fine to me, sir."

Quinn sighs softly and rubs at his elbow softly, "Okay, thank you."

Ian turns to leave, but stops when his boss calls out to him softly, "What would you do?"

And the intern smiles, because he's finally made a connection with his allusive boss, "I'd go to her."

* * *

"_Oh God, Quinn! I can't…I can't, I need to-,"_

"_You're going to hold on." He jerks himself harder, tossing his head back, phone clutched tightly to his ear. He refuses to miss anything she says, any of the sounds she makes; he wants and needs to hear her. "I'll let you come when I tell you that you can."_

"_Quinn!" She cries out, distraught._

"_Push a third finger inside, Rachel. Fill yourself up, just like I would."_

"_Oh fuck!" He squeezes his eyes shut to stop himself from coming when she cries out and curses. She sounds so completely beautiful when she cries out and it drives him completely insane. He squeezes himself harder, works himself faster, determined to get himself to the peak she's trapped at. "Would you… Quinn?"_

_Her voice sounds so completely wreck and it destroys him, "Would I what?"_

"_Fill me up…?" She sobs in pleasure, working those three fingers deep inside her, hooking them to touch that special place inside her, "Would you come inside me, Quinn?"_

_He rips his hands away and bites down so hard on his bottom lip that he feels the tiny drops of blood melt onto his tongue. The pain rips him away from his impending orgasm, only just. _

"_I'd come so hard inside you, Rach. I'd fill you right up, just the way you like it."_

"_Fuck, Quinn, fill me up. Please."_

"_I will…fuck, I will."_

_He grabs himself again and jerks his cock, hoping he's in tandem with Rachel, and feels himself tighten. Balls tightened, filled with come that is desperate to be released, he fights back a cry._

"_Promise me, Quinn."_

"_F-Fuck, I promise. I do, I promise."_

"_Oh, Quinn! I'm coming!"_

"_Rachel!"_

* * *

Standing beside Jesse and the rest of the cast, she takes her bow. The cheer is electric; a full house, all on their feet, clapping, whistling and cheering at them, at her. The play had been a hit, that much was certain and the newly revamped theatre was born again as a building that held the potential for greatness.

Rachel beams, blowing kisses to the crowd and she laughs when Jesse wraps his arm around her waist and shouts to her that they 'fucking nailed it'.

They all bow once more, waiting for the curtain to fall once more, and as she glances up, she catches a flash of bright blonde and cutting hazel eyes in amongst the darkness.

He came.

* * *

"Rach, you coming? We're going to _Sidebar_ for drinks!"

Rachel smiles softly at her best friend, "I'll meet you there. I have something to do first."

Jesse rolls his eyes playfully, "I can't promise I'll save you a drink," And he winks before dashing off to catch up with the group.

She shuts her dressing room door with a quiet click and takes one deep breath, nerves completely shaking her, before heading back toward the stage.

* * *

He's playing the piano when she gets there. It had been pushed the back of the stage for the final scene and she's honestly shocked at how perfectly he plays. His back it to her, his form perfect, fingers tickling the ivory almost as if they were suppose to be there.

She shuts her eyes and lets the music surround her; she knows this song, and she could almost smile. Does Quinton have an obsession with Britney Spears or something…?

But she just steps forward, waits for the music to loop once more and lets it all go.

"_Notice me. Take my hand. Why are we strangers when our love is strong? Why carry on without me? Every time I try to fly I fall without my wings, I feel so small. I guess I need you baby. Every time I see you in my dreams, I see your face, it's haunting me. I guess I need you baby…"_

He doesn't even stop playing. It's almost as if he's expecting it of her. Her eyes burn with unshed tears as she speaks her fears and for the first time, speaks of the love that is growing within her.

She walks toward him, drifting her fingertips across his shoulder blades before sitting down beside him. Arm to arm, so very close. She watches his fingers dance across the keys and melts into him. He's so strong, and he doesn't even need to put his arm around her to make her feel just as strong.

She's about to continue on with the song, knowing they're at the end, when she hears him inhale sharply. She looks to him, watches and waits, and hears the voice that he had hidden from her for so long.

"_I may have made it rain. Please forgive me. My weakness caused you pain, and this song is my sorry."_

She feels herself begin to cry, and together they finish the song, sat side by side, until his fingers slowly draw out the last and final note.

"You can sing…"

"Yeah."

"You're good. Maybe a little sharp, but that's only because you lack my training."

He chuckles softly, quietly and it makes her shudder.

"Why are you here…?"

She looks to him and almost gasps when he looks back at her. His hazel eyes shine with unshed tears and she aches to reach out and touch him, but she holds back and just waits.

"I was originally a writer before I formed my business. I tried to get published but it never happened. Eventually, I just gave up. I formed my business and I haven't looked back since. But I'm not happy; I'm not happy with being the CEO of my own company. All I want to do is write."

"Then why don't you?"

He shrugs one shoulder gently, "Fear."

She nods, "I understand that. I was terrified about pursuing acting; I didn't think I would be good enough. I thought director's would take one look at me and turn me away."

"You're beautiful."

She blushes softly with a smile, "Thank you." She shuffles slightly, so she faces him. "You should pursue your dream, Quinn. You need to be happy. You _deserve_ to be happy."

"I pushed you so hard because I didn't want you to give up on what you love. I guess, in a way, I didn't want you to become what I did; a mindless drone that only cared about money."

"…You can do both," She whispers, "Write and run your company."

He shakes his head, "No, it's one or the other. If I run my company, I'm rich, I'm comfortable…I'm my father. If I write, I'm a starving artist, back to square one and…not my father."

"Your father?"

Quinn shakes his head, "He thinks that success if how big your bank balance is. He never understood my love of writing. He tried to drill it into my head that if I pursued it, I'd be let down and I'd be broke. When I finally gave up, he just said 'I told you so' and told me to get a 'real' job."

"Quinn…" She sighs softly and rests her hand on his forearm, fingers still extended across the keys, "I'm so sorry."

He smiles sadly, "It's okay, it's not your fault. In fact, you gave me the push I needed."

"Oh?"

He drops his chin and smiles, "I'm going to write again. I wrote my resignation before coming here."

"_Quinn_."

"Rachel, it's okay. I need to do this." He looks to her, "I finally have the strength to do it, thanks to you." Then he sighs, "I'm sorry for telling you what we did was a mistake. I had no intention of hurting you. I was just mortified that our first time was when I was sloshed."

Rachel giggles softly, "First time?"

"Well, I thought…" He cuts himself off and blushes, "I'm not good at this. Take pity on me?"

She smirks, "You need to ask me, Mr Fabray."

He licks his lips and leans forward. He lowers his voice, and asks so very gently, "Rachel Berry, will you go out with a starving artist that needs you as his muse, needs you by his side; just god damn plain _needs_ you?"

And she kisses him, so very softly, near tears as she finally tastes his lips. So very soft and gentle, so caring and loving, "That sounds perfect."

And he smiles, and this time, it reaches his eyes.


End file.
